The noise of the affair spread rapidly. At first no one believed it, but when there was no longer room for doubt, each made his comments, according to the degree of his moral elevation.
“Father Dámaso is dead,” said some. “When he was carried away, his face was congested with blood, and he no longer breathed.”
“May he rest in peace, but he has only paid his debt!” said a young stranger.
“Why do you say that?”
“One of us students who came from Manila for the fête left the church when the sermon in Tagalo began, saying it was Greek to him. Father Dámaso sent for him afterward, and they came to blows.”
“Are we returning to the times of Nero?” asked another student.
“You mistake,” replied the first. “Nero was an artist, and Father Dámaso is a jolly poor preacher!”
The men of more years talked otherwise.
“To say which was wrong and which right is not easy,” said the gobernadorcillo, “and yet, if Señor Ibarra had been more moderate——”
“You probably mean, if Father Dámaso had shown half the moderation of Señor Ibarra,” interrupted Don Filipo. “The pity is that the rôles were interchanged: the youth conducted himself like an old man, and the old man like a youth.”